


Like Ashes

by calmlikesurrender



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst, Character Death, Dubious Consent, M/M, Military, Sexual Content, Smoking, bootcamp!au, like ashes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:06:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmlikesurrender/pseuds/calmlikesurrender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obligatory bootcamp AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's bootcamp and what happens after and it's not "military accurate", but I watched so many gifs of the boys in camo jackets, I had to start writing :)

_Boys_ , Liam’s father had said when Liam told him he was joining up,  _Boys with guns_.

           Now, third in line, he remembers the words. Two neat rows of boys dressed the same as him in head to toe cream. The tight, scoop necked army-sanctioned t-shirts, loose tan pants, running shoes.

            He shuffles, then stills. Shuffles again.

            The silence is driving him crazy. There’s not so much as a steady throb of their breaths. It’s like he’s the only one who’s conscious that this shouldn’t be second-nature.

            It’s so hot, it’s almost insulting. And humid, but he’s used to that much. Florida’s summers are wet and thick and each breath is like chugging tepid water, but then again, he’d never had to stand out for hours back home, still as a statue, while a man sat beside them on a lawn chair with a book propped in his lap- it’s  _Lord of the Flies_  and Liam’s half convinced he’s mocking them.

            To the right of him in line is a man a bit shorter. He’s not fidgeting like Liam. If anything, he’s rigid as stone. When the CC had stomped in and ordered them all out of the barracks, barked at them to stand at attention, the boy had been the first to get in line. The others had followed clumsily, not sure if they should finish unpacking first or not. It was clear in the bundles a few held in tight fists- single socks, shoelaces, a brush, a pile of sketch pads.

            With no preamble, without even so much as sucking in a breath before, the drill sergeant’s yelling. His voice is about as smooth as sandpaper and he tosses his book away as he stomps down the line, glaring at each person in turn as if they’ve all managed to personally offend him simply by existing.

            “I was having myself a good read,” he shouts, country drawl thick, spittle flies from his chapped lips, “But it seems I’ve got to teach you fucking idiots instead. Pair up!”

            After a bit of awkward fumbling and shaking clammy hands, everyone seems to be somewhat acquainted with the person beside them.

            Liam offers a weak smile for the man to his left-  _Z._   _Malik_ , Liam had remembered from the Reception Battalion before Bootcamp had even begun.

            “Zayn, man,” he says.

            “I’m Liam,” he says back.

            “I am your daddy. The men in your company are your brothers and sisters. And the idiot who just shook your limp ass hand is your new best friend,” the drill sergeant sneers, pacing down the line, “Don’t get him killed.”

            When they’re back in the barracks, they’re ordered to switch their bunks around so they’re sleeping next to their “Battle Buddies”. It’s more awkward than anything else. Especially when Liam offers to help Zayn with his things and he completely ignores him, goes about making his bed with slow steady hands.

            But later that night when they’re lying in bed just after Light’s Out, he hears a low, rough whisper, turns and can just make out Zayn in the shadows.

            “Hey, man,” he hisses, “I’m going for a smoke. You want in?”

             Liam shakes his head.

            “You’re not allowed to smoke. Didn’t they tell you?”

            He hears a sharp sound and for a second he thinks Zayn’s lit up right there. He realizes after a bit that it’s the harsh snap of his laughter, rough and smooth somehow at the same time, just like his voice.

            “Last time I followed a rule I was in fucking diapers,” he says, laughs again, “You want out of here, man?”

            “I don’t smoke.”

            Zayn chuckles like he and Liam are in on some joke together.

            “Eh, me neither, man,” he says, and the bed rustles lightly when he moves around. Liam can see him sit up straighter, kick his legs over the side.

            “You can’t leave, I don’t think,” he offers stupidly, thanking the darkness the moment the words leave his lips so Zayn can’t see him blush.

            “I need a smoke, man,” Zayn mutters, easing into his shoes, “I’m Diabetic.”

            Liam nearly agrees. Then realizes and groans.

            “If you get caught, we’re both going to get in trouble, you know? We’re partnered up.”

            “Well, I’m leaving,” Zayn says simply, plucking his jacket from the foot of his bed and shrugging it onto his broad shoulders, “and since we’re both getting fucked for this anyway, might as well come with me, right?”

            It doesn’t take much more than that to convince Liam to tag along. Not that he’s particularly gullible, but he’s just not used to… Zayn? Or people like him, maybe. Liam’s home town is a through-and-through. The only rebellious thing he’s seen in his entire life was when his uncle got drunk at Christmas when Liam was twelve and proceeded to tell every dirty family secret he knew to a dining-room full of shocked slack-jawed faces.

            This easy, casual, almost second-nature rule breaking is terrifying, but he follows so close behind Zayn he can smell the thick spicy oils of his pomade. And when they sneak off behind the wide deck of their sleeping quarters to the secluded section of packed dirt near the obstacle course, he bumps elbows with Zayn and smiles when the first burnt scents hit his nose.

            “Here,” Zayn offers, handing him the cigarette.

            Liam takes it, but only for a second. He’s never smoked. Actually, he’s never even thought about it. His grandfather’s on life support strapped to an oxygen tank. Sixty years of five packs a day had made his lungs hard as coal and just as useless. Cigarettes never held much appeal to Liam after seeing that.

            But in this moment, he considers. More than he ever has in his life. He presses his lips to the end just to get a feel for the taste, the warmth- wonders if this is too much, the thin veil of Zayn’s skin cells are on his now, right?  _This is a kiss then I guess_ he muses, then blushes so hot he nearly drops the cigarette on the ground.

            “You alright, man?” Zayn asks, inching closer, and Liam stammers out a reply that he hopes is coherent. If it’s questionable, Zayn doesn’t say a word.

            He only plucks the cigarette from Liam’s fingers and inhales deep with it pressed between his lips. He holds it like Liam’s seen people in movies do- with one finger and his thump pinched tight at the line of the crease of his mouth.

            When he exhales, he does it slow and easy just like everything else- a thin puff of smoke from the corner of his mouth. Drag. Puff. Drag. Puff.

            “Fuck,” he says finally, and Liam stills, “I should’ve brought more.”

            There’s a finality to the statement that makes Liam want to run back and grab the rest of the pack himself, rules or not. He just likes this- it’s no pressure. And he likes that Zayn doesn’t toss the bud out, but press it gently to the ground, ease it out with the tip of his boot in a few slow grinds.

            “Let’s go. I’m tired.”

            Liam nods, “Yeah, and we’ve got to be up early. We’re on Fire Watch.”

            “Damn, you’re right. That’s, uh- What? Fucking four in the morning, right?”

            Liam shakes his head, leading the way back to the barracks.

            “It’s 0430,” he corrects.

            Zayn laughs- lighters, still lighters, “Man, you’re in deep.”

            “It’s military time,” Liam says almost defensively, easing the door open gently, slipping inside to hold it out for Zayn behind him.

            Zayn’s voice is a whisper, “If I ever start barking mid-sentence, I expect a mercy killing,” he rolls onto his covers without moving them, boots and jacket still on, “You  know, since we’re Battle Buddies and shit.”

            “I think that only counts for when it’s war or something. I mean, not really  _now_.”

            Zayn shuffles a bit, and they can hear the soft sound of someone snoring in a bunk much further down.

            “You know there’s a guy here named Harry?” he says as if it doesn’t completely change the subject.

            When Liam doesn’t say anything, Zayn whistles low, “I mean,  _Harry_. It’s weird, right? Wonder where he’s from.”

            “Hogwarts,” Liam whispers and Zayn laughs.

            It’s almost nice now when they’re sort of new. It’s nice not knowing everyone’s story. Like they could all be from these fantastical places. They could be princes or convicts or maybe they’re just like him and they’re only kids from small towns who’d never even been past the state line before this. It’s the sort of thing he can’t shake- this feeling that the moment they say Ohio or Nebraska or LA or Boston then they’re not a puddle of starched cream cotton anymore, they’re little toy soldiers, flags stitched into the pockets of their canvas bags.

            He makes himself take a deep breath. Shifts until the covers are tucked snug under his feet.

            “I think Potter’s Battle Buddy’s got a little sugar in his tank,” Zayn whispers then, suddenly serious.

            Liam wants to ask what it means, if only to have time to think.

            He’s heard the phrase before. It’s sort of hard not to. His parents never believed in much, but his grandparents were the sort of people who could owe a million dollars to the IRS and give it to their church instead for a new roof. He hadn’t set foot in a church in his life, but when you grow up in a place where that mentality is standard, it’s hard not to feel out of place when you…  _question_  things, and Liam had been world class at questioning loads of things for as long as he could remember.

            It gets to the point where the silence is almost uncomfortable. Where he’s sure it’s saying a lot about him that his mouth is  _still_ closed.

            Zayn shifts in his jacket again.

            “Man, I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. If you’re.. You know?”

            He says the last words like he’s speaking through the bars of a prison cell to the inmate inside on death row. You know.

            “I’m not,” Liam snaps because it’s sort of true, and Zayn just exhales.

            “Cool. Whatever. Just saying, I’m not fucking with this communal shower shit too long if I’ve got to cover my junk when I’m washing my ass, man.”

            “I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” he says, trying to remember if he’d noticed anyone earlier who stood out, anyone with urm,  _sugar_. He can only think of one, and he can see his partner’s face already. He’d had a full head of wild curls, mud dark. The only one of them besides Zayn who’d managed to leave the Reception Battalion without a shaved head. The drill sergeant would take care of it soon enough, but for now it was almost nice to have them there untouched. It made it seem more like boy scouts camp when he was younger instead of what it really was. The novelty of it will change the moment they’re to the scalp like the others. Then it’s pawns and knights and rifle training and he’s not sure why, but just the thought reminds him how exhausted he is.

            “I thought they did screenings for stuff like that,” Zayn mumbles, yawns soft and lazy and slow like everything else he does, like he’s got marijuana flowing through his veins constantly.

            Liam shifts, turns so his back’s to Zayn, so he can pretend it’s someone else because every time he says another word, it’s like digging the shovel in deeper. And Liam wants this experience to change his life. Or at least to give it meaning, and life-changing moments aren’t supposed to be this confusing, right?

            “They didn’t screen me,” he offers, and Zayn sighs.

            “Yeah, man. Me neither. I guess they size you up and go from there.”

            “Yeah, I guess,” he says, for lack of anything better.

            “Guess,” Zayn agrees, and shifts again.

            It seems like Liam only blinks then he’s being shaken awake for Fire Watch by a puffy-eyed Zayn with tousled hair and deep black bags under his eyes.

—

 It’s just how he imagined, like every movie he’s seen, except instead of a dingy shower, they’re huddled close on packed dirt, soaking wet and shivering, trying to use their conjoined body heat to keep warm. It’s a punishment from their new drill sergeant, but Liam tries not to think about it like that. It’s a lesson, he tells himself, teeth chattering so loud he’s sure the others must be going mad with it. The wind picks up and he tries to be casual about leaning into Zayn’s side more. Breathing him in deep.

            For all of two seconds, he closes his eyes and swears he can hear his mother reminding him to pack extra long johns.

            They’re all in their boxers. Niall had been the only one who’d had time to grab anything at all- he’d ended up with one sock and a wrinkled t-shirt that clung to his torso now, probably only making the cold worse.

            Harry nods to Zayn and really, it is. It’s every movie he’s ever seen, every book he’s ever read. What are you in for? Harry might as well say. “What about you?”

            Zayn takes out his cigarette long enough to say, “St. Louis,” after another long drag, he turns to Harry nestled into his partner’s shoulder-Louis, he’d found out, “and I’m shit with names, so don’t get pissy if I start calling you Thing One and Thing Two.”

            Niall huffs, rocks back and forth with his hands in his shirt.

            It’s his fault really, his fault they’re here. They were a team and he’d fucked up, dropping a bag filled with loaded weights that would have been ammo in the field. So it’s a night out in the cold- a lesson. “One fails,” their drill sergeant had boomed, “We all fail. One dies, we all die.”

            “So what, I’m Three?” Niall says smiling, then points to Liam, “He’s Four?”

            Zayn shrugs then seems to reconsider. He looks Niall up and down, from his shoulders to his one sock, then does the same for Liam.

            He’s not shaking at all, not like the others, cigarette hanging from his lips. He’s as calm as he’s been since day one, taking everything in stride.

            “No, you’re Bombs,” he says finally and they all laugh.

            It’s another few minutes before Harry and Louis are whispering close, leaning into each other like the others aren’t even there. Liam’s used to it by now. The way they’d seemed to connect from the beginning, in their own private world from sun up to sun down.

            He turns to Zayn and asks him, because he doesn’t know what else to say, “What’s Missouri like?”

            Zayn shrugs.

            “It’s cold. How’s Florida?”

            “Hot,” he says, shivering, clutching his arms closer around his chest, “Really hot. And wet.”

            Zayn laughs, “Wouldn’t mind a bit of that now, man.”

            “Yeah, it’s…” Liam feels his cheeks burn.

How is it that everywhere he goes, he feels out of place. A decade behind?

            Before he can say anything else embarrassing, he mumbles out, “My name’s Liam, you know? We’ve been partners for almost two weeks.”

            Zayn watches him steady.

            “I know, man.”

—

            The first batch of letters comes; and they’re piled up at the foot of the bed furthest from the door of their massive room.

            Niall’s voice is a constant thrum in his ear. He speaks to everyone, walking back and forth around the room.He’d managed to remember everyone’s names and stories right off somehow. Even glancing down at the envelopes for some and offering little encouragements, “Hey, it’s from your sister,” he says to Harry’s partner, smiling. Things like that. Over and over. When Liam lies down with his head on his arms, he hears footsteps and a letter thrust out at him.

            “Guess it’s your parents,” Niall says, smiling. Always smiling.

            When Liam eases up, it seems like every joint in his body creaks its disapproval and Niall smiles again, this time knowingly. They’d started obstacle course runs at 0500 that morning and it was basically six straight hours of crawling and crouching and trying to remember why they’d ever decided Army recruiting would be a good idea.

            He waits until everyone’s settled in reading their letters or tearing open packages before he starts to read his own.

            It’s his mother’s writing which is as much as he’d expected. His father was still upset. This was how he showed it, with silence. When his mother was angry, the entire East coast knew, but his father could tell you as much without a word, just a glance and how his hands fisted in the pockets of his khakis.

            It had been a full ride to the college of William and Mary or enlisting, and apparently for his entire family, the choice was clear. He’d gotten congratulatory gifts before he’d even accepted the offer. Or declined the offer. After which his father had turned to stone.

             _Dear Liam,_

_Hope all is well. Are you sleeping alright? I know they don’t like bright colors and individual things, but I could send you a quilt maybe. They shouldn’t mind much so long as it’s so you stay rested._

He nearly laughs, perfectly able to imagine her down at Walmart dragging some poor employee to the linen aisle, bothering them to death with questions about army-approved sheet colors.

            He bites down on his lip when she mentions his grandfather, reads it so fast the words blur until he sees a familiar name and rolls his eyes.

             _Danielle stopped by Sunday evening. She didn’t even know you’d left already. I know you were so busy, and I told her you didn’t really have time to let everyone know. She stayed for dinner by the way. Lovely like always! She told us all about her major and-_

He doesn’t even finish. He can skim and see exactly where the rest of the letter’s going. He folds it back up and puts it on his pillow, lies out with his eyes closed tight trying to remember the way his heart had raced today at rifle training, the power of a cold trigger.

            When they’re lying in bed just after dinner that night, Zayn tosses his letter to Liam and Liam tosses his over as well. They swap and read without words.

Zayn’s letter is on the back of a half-finished Thor coloring page. It’s in thick wobbly purple crayon and says only a few words.

             _Zayn_

_Mom says you get a gun. I want one too. We learned how to count to 100.  Do you have friends yet?_

_Love, Little Bear_

When Zayn finishes Liam’s letter, he trails his finger over the last few words and looks to Liam with a sly smile.

            “So Danielle, huh?”

            Liam has to force himself not to snort.

            No. Not Danielle. Never Danielle.

            Instead he nods, then shakes his head.

            “I don’t know,” he says, “It’s complicated.”

            Zayn tosses the letter to Liam’s bed and laughs, “Well, if you don’t fuck her, your mom sounds like she wouldn’t mind.”

“We went to prom together,” he says suddenly, like it’s important.

            Zayn nods, “I didn’t get to go to prom.”

            “You didn’t miss anything.”

            “Sex in the limo after?”

            Liam shrugs.

            “She held my hand. We kissed.”

            “She ugly?”

            Liam shrugs again.  _No_ , he wants to say,  _she’s gorgeous. I just can’t_..

            “We just never got there, not that night, I mean. I didn’t feel it. I sort of thought you had to feel it, and now it seems like such a stupid thing, but then it was the most important thing in the world. And we were never even really together, we just happened. It’s a small town, it’s- Everything’s set up for you. Everything makes sense. It’s all there and you follow the plan, and the scariest part is even if we never got there, I know if I had stayed, we would have gotten married and had kids and nothing would have changed.”

            He says it all so fast, he’s practically gasping for air afterwards. He’s never told it all to someone before. It feels good, though. It feels incredible to finally get it off of his chest.

            He wants to go further, but he doesn’t. He wants to tell Zayn how sick he had felt, sick to his stomach months later, lying above her on the soft pink blankets in her tiny room, spreading her thighs with unsure hands, pushing down past the thin fabric of her panties to press a finger to her gently, feel the slickness already coating her. And God, how he’d just wanted to die hearing her moan his name, grinding into her, slipping his eyes shut every few seconds with her brother’s face behind the lids. Not too much. He didn’t want to feel like he was… cheating. Or something, just remembering the hard lines of her brother’s biceps, the way his shirt would ride up a little when he’d settle into his car, how he’d bite down on his lip when he was focused. Just enough to stay hard until Danielle mewled pitifully, clutched at his shoulders with a tight grip, bit on the side of his neck as he felt her clench down around him, shuddering, soft whispers.

Nothing makes sense post orgasm, he knows. He’s had more revelations than he can count with his hand down around himself. But Danielle didn’t know- he doesn’t think any girl knows. She’d whispered it to him the first time he’d reached for the band of her pants. The first time they’d talked about going further than kissing. It would make things so much easier if they would. If girls would get off before they were with someone. Then this slow burn, this bliss like Heaven’s decided to relocate right up in your ribcage? It wouldn’t have to be _love_  every time. And he wouldn’t have to make excuses not to see her, and he wouldn’t have to deal with his mother’s awkward tearful speeches about how smart and beautiful their kids will be.

            There’s a short silence, but it doesn’t feel tense. It’s like Zayn’s weighing his words thoughtfully.

            “My first time was with my best friend,” he says slowly like he’s trying to remember it just right, “We were both so scared and it was in the back seat of my uncle’s car and she cried after. I think I know what you mean. About wanting to feel it, you know? I wish I’d waited, I guess. Maybe not for a soul mate or some shit, but for like- For, I don’t know, for…”

            “Yeah,” Liam says and Zayn nods.

            “Yeah, man.”  

—

            The first time they do the obstacle course all the way through with no mistakes, the drill sergeant shakes both of their hands. Liam feels incredible, really incredible, for all of two minutes. Then Zayn says, “ _Thanks, man,”_  and they’re doing pushups right there in the same spot and the second he shouts out fifty, assuming he’s done, the drill sergeant props his foot up on Liam’s back.

            “Are you done?” he growls, “I don’t think you’re done.”

            51. 52. He’s still counting. He gets to 60 when the drill sergeant looks over to the other recruits still trudging through the obstacle course. Even the fastest partners, Louis and Harry, were still going to be a good five minutes behind Zayn and Liam’s time. It’s almost enough to make him forget his body screaming in protest to the drill sergeant’s mountainous weight on his back.

            As if he can read his thoughts, the weight shifts up a little to between his shoulder blades and he keens, sinking low to ease into 64, barely making it back up again.

            “Are they done?” the drill sergeant shouts out to the others, and he hears a chorus of resounding no’s.

            “Okay, give me a hundred,” he says lower so only Zayn and Liam can hear. When Zayn stops counting at 80, he makes it 150.

            That night’s the happiest Liam’s ever been to hear Light’s Out.          

—

            The joke is that you can tell why someone enlisted just by looking at how awkwardly they go about finding solitary time to masturbate.

            The men who wait it out for  _weeks_ , who stoically pretend they’re not dying to just jerk themselves off. They’re the ones who give disapproving glances to the others when they joke about whether the drill sergeants suck each other off in the shower. They’re the guys who joined for  _honor_. Their grandfather was in World War II- a decorated veteran. They’ve got girls back home who’s pussies are sealed up tighter than the Hoover Dam, with weak ankles and greedy pockets and daddies who still call them  _Darling_.

            Then there are the guys who wake up half an hour before everyone else to shower alone and have a wank under the steamy water. They joined because they didn’t get into good schools, and it was either this or working the family business.

            Then there were people like Harry and Louis. Basically, the ones who didn’t give two shits where they got off or who was present nor how adamantly they protested. It had gotten to the point where Louis would drop to his knees in the shower with them all there, and they’d only shrug and finish soaping up, maybe make bets on how long Harry’d last this time. These guys, the Harry and Louis soldiers, were here because they didn’t have anything better to do.

            When they’re all sat around at dinner stuffing their faces, Harry asks Liam why he joined and he says it was this or school, and this pays better. They all laugh.

            Niall says he can’t do anything but fish and no one gives a shit about fishing in Tishomingo, Oklahoma, so he’s saving money so he can move to California and fish all he wants.

            Louis’ in Harry’s lap. He rolls his eyes.

            “Fuck, I just want some easy money.”

            “This is easy?” Zayn scoffs, no doubt recalling a few bruises he’s sure to never forget from a twenty-mile hike with packs carrying half their weight and all of their gear just that morning.

            Louis shrugs, “Yeah, it’s- Okay, it’s a pain in the ass a lot of the times. But where I’m from, it’s either jail or join up, so I said fuck it.”

            “And met me,” Harry adds happily and they all groan when they kiss.

            “What about you?” Liam asks, turning to Zayn.

            Zayn nibbles on the side of his roll, doesn’t even flinch when Niall reaches across and plucks a wing from his plate.

            “ _I just want to blow shit up_.”

            Liam’s the only one who laughs.

            Harry just smiles, “Jarhead, right?”

            Louis shakes his head.

            “G.I. Jane. One of my favorites.”

            “I like Purple Rain,” Niall muses, mouth full, and there’s a consensual eye roll.

            “We’re talking war movies here, man,” Zayn says, “Fuck if I didn’t watch Behind Enemy Lines until my eyes were bleeding.”

            “Tropic Thunder,” Niall mumbles.

            “Didn’t you ever want to shoot stuff, man? A real war movie?”

            “What about Apocalypto?”

            “Doesn’t count either,” Zayn says, “No guns.”

            It takes about ten minutes for them all to come to the conclusion that Zayn just doesn’t want to agree with Niall on this subject at all. When Niall finally shrugs and says, “Behind Enemy Lines?” as a peace offering, Zayn scoffs, “Gay ass movie,” and they end their meal instead trying to decide if Demi Moore is hotter with long hair or bald.

—

            When they’re finally moving out, when bootcamp is behind them and they’re in head to toe cream camo gear, when there’s a streakliner destined for the other side of the world and they’re all boarding in a few hours, Zayn packs like he plans on coming back in a few  _days_. He tosses a clean shirt, about a hundred cartons of cigarettes- Liam still hasn’t figured out the steady supply-, and his toothbrush into his bag. Then reconsiders and tosses in a bound leather book as well.

            When Liam asks him what it is, Zayn says it’s a bible.

            “I pray sometimes.”

            “I didn’t know you were religious.”

            “I’m not,” Zayn says, short and final.

            But later that night when they’re on the ship, he sneaks across the aisle into Liam’s bunk so casually like they’ve been doing this every night.

            Or maybe they have. Figuratively, or something- Liam was never good with metaphors and stuff. But talking up at 2 am had to count for something. Calling someone your brother had to count, too, right? Maybe. Either way Zayn slips in beside him and Liam breathes deep and slow and focuses on each of Zayn’s words like they’re made of gold to stop himself from noticing the way their elbows bump or how soft Zayn’s lips look or how thick his cock feels in his boxers all of a sudden.

            “We got evicted when I was like ten or something, and we didn’t have anywhere to go,” Zayn talks like they’ve discussed this before, like Liam knows this already. Fast and rushed and he probably needs it to be like that, so Liam listens fast and rushed, too. For him.

            “There’s this church in my old neighborhood called St. James African Methodist Episcopal church, and they took us in, and I don’t know. I just sort of always feel like I should give God a chance because of them and they never asked for anything back, they just helped. I was too young then to know how easy they could have ignored it, but when I got older I always felt like… I’m not even sure. I felt like if God did exist, he was in that church back home. Like he was in all of those people. He was the good there, or something. Shit, I don’t know, man.”

            “I get that,” Liam whispers into the dark.

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Are you scared?”

            Liam squeezes his eyes shut. Sighs.

            “What? For this?”

            Zayn shakes his head.

            “Dying, I mean. You ever get the feeling we’re never going to make it back?”

            Liam nods. He’s not sure if this is okay. This… confession. But he says it anyway. Lets it settle between them.

            “Sometimes I think it’d be better that way. It’s so much easier to say goodbye.”

            Zayn shifts and he’s so close his breath is warm on the side of Liam’s neck. He still smells like burning things. It still makes Liam shiver.

            “Saying goodbye wasn’t easy for me.”           

            Liam shakes his head, “Yeah, me either.”

            “But I’d do it again, though,” Zayn adds hastily, and his fingers brush against Liam’s forearm, bicep, his shoulder, light like snow, “I don’t regret it.”

—

           No one had explained the waiting- how it was actually the worst part. “Hurry up and wait”- the running military joke. The months of nearly riotous anticipation, then… nothing. How bootcamp taught you how to hold your rifle, how to aim, how to shoot, how to clean it, how to love it, how to stand in formation for hours, but not how to wait. Not how to sit still. He’s sitting out on the old gnarled stump of a dead tree, his rifle balanced on his thighs.

            It’s dark out, but in a comforting way. Like if he wanted to, he could just start walking.

            He won’t.

            Of course. Not when his dad had looked at him like that. Like he wasn’t expecting him to get on the bus, let alone make it through bootcamp. No, he won’t walk away. Even though he’s scared to death, he won’t.

            But it’s still nice to know there’s the option. He could shrug out of his jacket, leave his rifle for Zayn. Keep the knife for himself. He’s not sure how far he’d make it. Far enough to not be able to see sand anymore is all he needs. There’s nothing beyond that, but the drive to be home- he has to tell himself he’s home now.

            He hears footsteps. Or really, the sound of shuffling sand, lazy feet nudging the ground on their way instead of the dutiful march he’s used to hearing.

            There’s no mistaking who it is.

            “At it again?” he calls out, near a shout but still low.

            The shadow huffs out a breath.

            “When do they have time for anything else?”

            Zayn’s voice always surprises him. Even after weeks of it. Smooth when he’s cocky, rough when he’s dead tired on his feet, an almost innocent question at the end of every word when he’s wasted.

            Now he’s settling down at the ground by Liam’s side, shrugging a cigarette from his breast pocket and lighting it up with quick hands.

            “You’d think the whole we-could-die-any-second thing would kill some of the momentum, right?”

            Liam shrugs, trying to count the steps in his mind back to the shore. They’d flown in almost twenty miles, then shouldered it the rest of the way- A hike of nearly three days.

           “Maybe that makes it better,” he says, thinking out loud, “You have to take everything. That way when it’s over, you’re not really gone. I mean, well you’re gone, but there’s every piece that mattered and he’s… holding them…”

            Zayn rambles on low.

            “Fuck this shit, man. All I want is my bunk back,” he mumbles.

            Liam shakes his head.

            “They’re in your-”

            “Yeah, man.”

            “Oh.”

            He’s trying to count the steps still, he really is. But it’s nearly impossible with Zayn there, smoke trailing slow from his parted lips. Lazy white ghosts in the night air, thin streams of carcinogen angels.

            “Take mine,” he says. Zayn turns to him.

            “What?”

            “Take my bunk.”

            He moans through a long drag, eyes never leaving Liam’s.

            “Where are you gonna sleep?” he breathes, more smoke, more death. Liam doesn’t mind- it’s fitting somehow. That they’re here with fate playing some twisted game of Russian Roulette. Each time he sees Zayn light up, breathe deep, he wants to throw his fist in the air. It’s taking your life in your own hands, it’s the thick feeling in the pit of his stomach whenever his finger’s on the trigger. Because he could see the target and aim and fire like a good little soldier, but he could turn to his right, too. He could make a blurry red stain just where Zayn used to be standing. Or he could face the barrel right at his own chest, breathe deep, say a prayer, be the sick reminder to everyone that there’s a little chaos in all the straight lines.

            “Just take it,” he says, “I’ll bum Niall’s when he takes over watch for me in a few hours.”

            Zayn nods, “Thanks, man,” and helps himself up with a hand right on Liam’s thigh. He sucks in a breath, but if Zayn notices he doesn’t say a word.

            Liam spends the rest of his watch trying to remember what his mother’s banana bread tastes like. When Niall slips out of the dark, fisting at his eyes with a yawn, Liam tells him they’re swapping bunks.

            “Why?” he asks, yawns again, plops down in the sand.

            “Oh, oh okay,” he says then before Liam can respond, “I’m last watch anyway. ‘S cool.”

—

            Liam wakes up and shrugs his jacket on. It’s hot, unforgivably so, but they’re still required to wear every piece of their gear just in case they have to move suddenly.

            He buckles his cargo pants and does up the laces on his boots, tries to ignore the steady breaths coming from the bunk beside him. Niall’s heavy whimpers in his sleep- he has nightmares. Not every night, but most. The others had decided on the second night not to mention it and stuck stoically to the promise.

            Now, though, Liam can’t be arsed to remember why it was even so important in the first place. He steps out of the tent and makes his way over to the lean figure off near the first row of trucks. If he hadn’t been sure it was Zayn, the slow trails of his hand from his mouth to his side are convincing enough.

            He’s not alone. Harry and Louis are sat around on the ground by his feet, sweating right through the thick canvas of their jackets. And Zayn looks… different.

            Liam’s not sure what it is for a moment, then he steps closer.

            It’s like Zayn’s eyes are lighter or something, like they’re gold instead of bronze. And his skin is so tanned, he almost looks like a different person. It takes Liam a good minute to notice the streak of blond two inches thick on his quiff. Then another few seconds to finally stop staring.

            “You bleached your hair?” he asks eventually, more confused than anything, “How?”

            “Honey,” Harry says.

            Louis fiddles with a handful of sand, “Spunk.”

            Zayn breathes out, motions for Liam to come closer.

            “Ashes,” he says, around a fresh cloud of death, “We’re moving out today. No more  _this_.”

            The corner of his mouth crooks up a bit when Harry hoots excitedly. It’s the closest any of the others have gotten Zayn to an actual smile and Liam’s hands grip to fists in his pockets.

            “Good, I’m getting sick of waiting,” Louis sniffs, and Liam nods in agreement.

            Zayn reaches down to press his cigarette to the earth, steps it out gently with the corner of his boot. He lights another as soon as he’s upright again.

            “Don’t know why you’re complaining,” he says, mumbles really, lips pressed tight around it, “All you faggots do is fuck all day anyway. I should be the one having a conniption.”

            And Liam nearly chokes. Not on anything even, just on his own tongue maybe. On the words like he’s said them himself.

            He presses a hand to his chest to try and steady his heart beat maybe before it pumps right out of his skin, but then there’s Harry there instead, talking to him slow.

            “Hey, breathe, Liam,” he’s saying, whispering, coaxing, “Are you alright?”

            He manages to nod a few times somehow, but the word’s still there. Except when he’s fine again, both Louis and Harry are still sitting there laughing, smiling, wrapped around each other like nothing’s changed.

            The only one who seems even remotely phased is Zayn, but he’s not upset, he’s… steady. He’s Zayn, of course he’s steady. But it’s the way he watches Liam that makes him shift on his heels, rock back and forth like he’s under a microscope and Zayn can see straight through his skin to the tiny parts of him he’d gotten so good at hiding. HHHHe wasn’t sure they even existed anymore or if he’d made them up in the dark, lying in bed alone with the monsters and shadows and his trembling fingers so slick between his parted thighs and quiet country noises for company. Well, not until  _now_. Not since he’d joined up and ran nearly a thousand miles away from something that met him full circle, buddied up with him straight away to torment him with cancer and hazel and those stupid looks like he’s being ripped apart, but he asked for it so if he cries out, no one will come and he’s not even sure if he wants to be saved at all.

            That night is like the first. He and Zayn sit up late in the dark, arms tucked behind their heads. Zayn sighs and Liam asks him, almost reflexively, if he wants a cigarette.

            He talks slow and soft. Liam can hear the sheets rustling beneath him. He still never slips beneath the covers, always lays on top fully clothed, boots and all, “Naw, I think I’m gonna quit, man.”

            Liam snorts out a laugh, “I don’t think you have the willpower.”

            “I’m down to a pack a day.”

            It’s true so Liam doesn’t press. Then after a moment, he looks over to him, his silhouette in the shadows, grey against black.

            “Did you leave anyone back home?” he asks, “I mean, anyone special. You never talk about a girlfriend or anything.”

            Without even a pause, Zayn asks, “Did you?”

            Liam shakes his head.

            “You know about Danielle. I tell you… everything. There’s nothing left.”

            He certainly can’t deny it. Zayn knew more about him than any of the other guys in their company. They all make jokes about Battle Buddies being attached at the hip, but there’s something almost reverent about knowing that your life is in someone’s hands and that theirs is in yours. It makes the secrets come easy.

            He knows so much about Zayn, but at the same time so little.

            “There was someone, yeah,” Zayn exhales deep, it’s almost a sigh, “It was supposed to be just sex, but then somehow it wasn’t. Fast, too, man. Fuck, just like  _that._ ”

            “So you ran?”

            “I had to.”

            “What about them?”

            “If they’re smart, they’ll move on.”

            Liam smiles. Hopes it’s dark enough Zayn can’t see.

            “What if he’s not smart? What if he can’t forget about you or whatever?”

             It takes so long for Zayn to respond, Liam almost thinks he’s fallen asleep. Then he realizes.

            And it’s too late. Fuck, it’s way too late.

             _He_. He’d said “he”, right?

            Or… or maybe he hadn’t? Maybe this was-

            “What did you say?”

            Maybe this was ice water. Alcohol on an open wound. Maybe this was fate.

            “What?” Liam manages, tongue heavy and thick against the roof of his mouth.

            Zayn hisses, “ _You don’t get it, do you_?”         

—

            He’s not even sure what he’s doing. It’s just too much. They’re alone- the five of them. They were supposed to scope out an abandoned village. The rest of their company had split into three groups.

            Some stayed put, some trudged north, others left. Just like that. A radio in from the ship days away and then a chopper came for them.

            But something went wrong and when Liam and the others had doubled back, there was no one there to report to. Where the entire camp had been was now only a stack of burned papers, a tattered old map, and a half empty canteen of water.

And miles and miles of sand.

            He’d woken up to the most ultimate sort of silence. Even in the abandoned village, there’s a sense of  _presence_. Sand doesn’t rustle like trees, though. He’s used to trees. Florida was lacking loads of things, but trees weren’t one of them, and trees would never shut up.

            This, though, is quiet like death and he hates it. So he sneaks the little clear tube out of Harry’s pack and it’s cold enough at night that he doesn’t sweat through his clothes, so he’s in his under shirt and pants when he slicks himself up with baby oil in the other room of the little shack they’d decided to wait out in, leans back against the door and keeps his breaths steady.

            It’s Zayn’s shoulders mostly, then the way he pouts around his cigarettes. Then it’s how he sighs when he’s tired. Then how the sweat slides down the smooth skin of his back. Then his eyes, his lips, his voice so rough when he’s just waking up and Liam can’t help it, he reaches down between his legs and uses a little more oil to press a gentle finger against his hole, doesn’t even wait for much build up before he inches it slowly inside.

            It’s like he remembers, it’s excruciating, but he whimpers like a whore and presses that much deeper.

            The scariest thing is he needs it. That’s the part that ruins it all- he can’t say no. To himself which is almost tragic. To the idea of what he could have, which just makes him want to throw up.

            He’s just slipping his fingers out, cleaning himself up with unsteady hands when he hears a soft whisper.

             _Hey?_

He turns and steps away from the door when it creaks open slowly, and Zayn steps inside, shuts it again with the same gentle motion.

            “I thought you’d gone for a smoke or something,” he offers. Liam shakes his head.

            When does he ever smoke without him? He wants to ask, but he doesn’t. Not when Zayn’s eyes are determined and distracted at the same time, not when he’s got his pack slung over one shoulder and Liam’s over the other.

            “Zayn, what’s- What the hell are you doing?”

            “You trust me, right?” he says, then shifts his glance anxiously, takes an almost unconscious step forward, “It’s always been us, man. From the beginning.”

            Liam wants to argue. But only because he’s starting to feel something sink low in his gut. It’s the way Zayn’s entire body tenses at every small rustle in the night. It’s always been them, though. He’s right.

            “I trust you. Of course I trust you.”

            “Then it should just be the two of us, right?” he stammers, licks at his chapped lips, reaches a hand out.

            “You don’t mean that,” Liam says, hopes really, but his voice is shaking, fingers still slick, “You’re just scared.”

            And like always, Zayn’s mood changes in an instant. He’s sugar, he’s acid. He’s the soft curve of a match stick, the seductive destruction of a flame.

            “The fuck would you know?” he seethes, “Yeah, ‘cause you’re the god damn king of courage, right, man? Look me in the eye, and tell me honestly you haven’t been thinking of running since we hit the bank.”

            Liam takes a step forward, but Zayn meets him- the sort of presence that would be intimate if not for the anger so clear in his eyes.

Liam feels lost, “You told me I was your best friend once.”

            Zayn’s voice trembles, his hands are tight fists, “You don’t know _shit_ , man.”

            And for some reason, this is worse than the other times. It’s the way Zayn fists at the strap of Liam’s pack maybe. He can’t shake the feeling that this is the end of the world and he’s walking right into it. Like if Zayn just says his fucking name, it’ll be… okay. Maybe. Better. Normal again.

            “My name’s Liam, okay? Not  _man_  or-”

            “Why do you fucking care? We’re all gonna die out here anyway!” Zayn’s voice is like gravel, or egg shells. Or thorns, “They fucking left us, man, we’re on our own! This shit’s real!” He jerks back and slams his fist into the wall by Liam’s head so fast Liam doesn’t even have time to move away. He dodges a black eye by a good two inches.

            There’s shuffling outside, soft rustling like heavy boots rushing through thin sand.

            Niall’s the first there. He throws the door open with his rifle up and ready, aimed to fire.

            He drops it a fraction when he sees they’re alone, but only a little. Whether it’s subconscious or not, he keeps the barrel nearly aimed at Zayn’s chest.

            He offers at least a hesitant nod, “Is everything okay?”, which apparently is all the distraction Zayn needs. He’s calm for all of three seconds, looks to Liam almost like he’s going to apologize before Harry pops his head in the door, breathless and gasping.

            “What the fuck’s going on? Who’s shouting?”

            Then Louis comes up behind him, and Liam knows it’s all gone to shit. If there was anyone of them with an ounce of subtlety it sure as hell wasn’t Louis.

            He rolls his eyes, “God, it sounded like fucking-”

            But his voice trails off and he looks from Liam to Zayn and back like he’s reading between the lines. Then he smiles.

            Full on beaming like he can’t sense how awkward it is, how tense.

He stares right at Zayn and bats his lashes, “Lovers’ quarrel?”

            And Liam’s first thought is that it’s a good thing Zayn’s rifle is out of reach. He looks murderous. The others must see it, too. The moment he lunges for the door, they all jerk back. Even Niall who’s clearly got the upper hand being the only one armed.

            But there’s no need apparently. All he does is shut the door.

            Then he’s wrenching his rifle from his pack and shoving it up beneath the knob. Then he’s kissing him.

            If you could call it that. He rams his lips against Liam’s and thrusts his tongue into his mouth before he can catch a breath.

      “I fucking hate you, you know?” he snaps, pulling away. Then he drops their packs at his side.

If he’s losing himself in this, Liam will let him. If he’s finding himself, he’ll let him have that, too. Whatever he needs.

“You done this before?” Zayn asks, jerking back, and Liam shakes his head because fingers don’t count. Girls are still pure until someone’s had their dick in them, so he’s fully accepting the same standards.

“You clean, man?” Zayn asks, and Liam rolls his eyes, works at the buttons of Zayn’s camo jacket.

“Any cleaner and you could..” but he blushes so fast, he can’t even finish the thought.

To Zayn’s credit, he doesn’t mention the slip up. Maybe because he’s nervous, too. And because this is the sort of thing that can be ruined so fast with words.

Or, Liam thinks because he’s a masochist maybe, he wants it to be that. More than this.

It’s so easy, though. They just fit. It’s like natural progression- their bodies molding together.

“Maybe we should’t do this,” he says, though, to be diplomatic.

“I know you want it. I can tell,” Zayn huffs. 

Liam’s entire face burns, right down through his bones, “I never said-”

“You didn’t have to.”

            His fingers are so rough when he holds him down. He drags his hand between Liam’s legs and makes a low throaty sound when he feels how slick he is already.

            He moans, “That what you were doing before in here all alone? Touching yourself?”

            Liam only nods, pressing down against his finger.

            “ _Fuck_ ,” Zayn breathes out, groans so soft, “God, you like that, don’t you?”

            Before Liam can even respond, Zayn’s dragging him down to the ground so he’s on his hands and knees. Zayn teases him a bit with just one finger, then starts to press his dick into him with no preamble, only these throaty little growls that match each shallow thrust. Liam’s entire body is screaming, begging for it to stop. He’s not ready, not even close, but Zayn doesn’t notice at all.

            Liam wants to take him slow, tell him how he’d worked up to this.

How when he’d brought himself there for the first time with just his fingers, it had been so strange initially. He’d checked his bedroom door about a dozen times to make sure it was locked. Then he laid back on his bed and slipped his pants down, worked a finger slowly into himself with his hands shaking. It had been so slow, almost a half hour before he started to feel something more than mild discomfort. By then he’d managed two fingers and had his other hand on his cock, gripping slightly, barely moving at all. Then he’d felt it.

            His spine had gone taut and he’d gasped, bright colors behind his eyes, his fingers curving up to stroke whatever it was inside him that made him forget gravity for a few seconds. It was almost terrifying how good it felt. Like the first time Danielle had slipped lower on the bed. When he’d held himself out for her and she’d nudged at the head of his cock nervously with bruised lips, took him down as much as she could go, hot and wet and he’d made it about a half a minute before he came embarrassingly fast and she’d pulled away but not quite fast enough, grumbling as she wiped her face.

            This though, this was better. He nudged that spot again, curled his fingers a little, and his hips jerked up right off the bed. He could feel his cheeks flush, his breaths rough and unsteady.

            “ _Fuck_ ,” and it echoed around the room. He had a second or two to think that maybe he shouldn’t be doing this. Maybe it’s dirty and he’ll be okay, he’ll be alright if he stops here and never tries again. He could call Danielle and they could kiss in the back of his truck. It was Sunday, but she might even let him slip his hand under her top, cup her breast, squeeze just hard enough so he can hear her whimper.

            But then he’d slipped another finger inside, and fuck if he was going to stop anytime soon.

            “Oh-  _Oh god_.”

            It was almost painful. Almost. More than that, though, he fisted hard at his cock and moved his fingers around faster, curled them then groaned when it was too much. He’d thrust up into his hand, but tried to push back at the same time and suddenly felt awful about hating Danielle’s pleading moans. When he’d be so deep inside her, and slip a hand down between them to press against her clit, and she’d buck up against him, grip him tighter

            And he’d wondered if it would be like that. God, if it was this- this fucking amazing with just fingers. What would it be like with someone’s dick stretching so much more than he could on his own. With their hand around him, too, a rough fist. He’d wondered if his “first” time would be that incredible. That raw. 

Except it’s not. Zayn’s- he’s tearing him apart, shredding at him from the inside.

            “I can’t- Please, just-” his voice breaks with each deep thrust. But it’s not that, though. It’s everything- because his voice breaks when the thrusts turn shallow, too. And then more and he’s not even crying, he’s sobbing. He’s trembling so hard from his shoulders down to his thighs he’s not sure how Zayn manages to hold onto him, but he does.

            “Fuck, I’m close.  _Shit_ ,” like he can’t hear anything Liam’s saying, like every ragged breath isn’t torture.

            When Zayn finally comes, Liam nearly collapses beneath him. It takes everything he has to just hold himself up.

            Zayn reaches around a bit to touch Liam’s dick like he’s checking to make sure it was okay for him, too. When he’s not hard, it must be enough because Zayn pulls away that much more and smiles like he’s been holding it back for ages.

            “Fuck, man,” he sighs, content and lazy, and Liam’s too spent to say anything and Zayn had felt too good- No, painful, agonizing, but he’d held him, though. He’d rocked into him gentle- at first anyway. Liam’s too desperate to admit that he feels dirty now.

He pulls his pants back up and ignores the wetness between his thighs. Ignores it when he holds two fingers out in front of his face and they come back dark with blood. Even ignores it the next morning when they decide to head north to see if they can find somewhere with a signal, maybe figure out what happened to the others, and each step sends sharp pain right up his spine.

Zayn looks at him like he’d seen men on the street look at Danielle sometimes when he had his arm around her waist.

Louis looks at him like his mom would look at his grandfather, replacing the water in the vase of orchids by his hospital bed.

Harry looks at him like his dad had when Liam had told him he was joining up. Liam can almost hear him again.

 _Boys_ , Harry’d be saying now if any of them had the nerve to speak,  _Boys with guns._

Niall does the best he can to avoid Liam’s eyes altogether.    

—            

                It’s so bright, he has to shield his eyes. The sand reflects worse than snow- his little town didn’t have much, but a drive up a bit in late January and there was heaps of it. They might as well be walking on the sun, Liam thinks, it’s that fucking ridiculous.

                And hot. God, it’s so hot.

                He remembers absently a stray thought about Florida being Hell, but this is worse. It’s Hell with the heat turned up. Like if Hell was burning already and someone smothered it in gasoline, and lit it again. Like Satan had the world perched on the end of his cigarette. Lit up for days, for miles.

                Harry sighs, leaning on Louis’ shoulder. His hair is shaggy and bone-dry, drooping into his eyes.

                “Where the fuck are we?”

                Niall stops and fumbles with the map. They’d handed it to him right away. He was the only one who could recognize anything anyway. All the others saw was sand.

                He squints his eyes a little and points out ahead.

                “That way. A little village. The map’s a few years old, but it’s got to still be there. We can probably make it in another day or two.”

                “You sure?” Zayn asks. His jacket is tied around his waist, his shirt bound tight around his head. It’s almost hilarious. Or it would be if they weren’t too tired to laugh. He looks like he belongs here. He’s tan enough, anyway. But without all the hair gel and camo, he might as well be another target.

                “Sure enough,” Niall says. Then he sighs, “We’re almost out of water.”

                For a moment none of them speak. Then Harry clears his throat.

                “We can drink our pee,” he says, “I saw it on  _Man vs. Wild_  once.”

                Everyone decides to ignore him, but he grumbles under his breath that they better not ask for any of his piss when they’re dehydrated because he’s storing up.

                Louis tries to accept Harry’s offer quietly, but the others hear and he gets hell about it for the rest of the day.

—

            “No, wait- Can’t we just, uhm..” while Zayn fumbles with Liam’s zip then his own. Makes it to tugging his trousers just past his hips before Liam’s eyes start slipping out of focus.

            “Turn around if you don’t want to look at me,” Zayn huffs, fisting into Liam’s shirt, breath icy cold. Or maybe it’s because he’s so used to the bitter edge his cigarettes left. Down to the last pack, he’d been sucking them slow, one a day instead of a few dozen like before. Always just before bed, he’d drag Liam out into the cold night air to sit him down and discuss karma like business, war like child’s play.

            “Not enough time,” Liam mumbles, sucks in a deep breath when Zayn’s fingers slip past the band of his boxers.

            “We’ve got til kingdom fucking come, man. This is Purgatory.”

            Tendrils of ice, his lips not quite at Liam’s neck, not quite a kiss. It’s tender, the way he hovers, the way he seems hesitant to cross some unspoken boundary. It’s tender how he breaks him, too, but Liam pushes the thought away.

            “I need… more- longer,” Liam stammers, struggling to find his voice. Somehow he manages the words, a commendable feat considering Zayn’s rough grip has just started to match the slow grinds of his hips against Liam’s thigh. He pushes his knee between Liam’s legs and ruts up against him, swallows thick and focuses in on Liam’s collar like he’s wondering what it would taste like.

            “Do you have anything?” Zayn’s voice has rushed past eager. He licks his lips and bites down, moans, “Whatever it was last time.”

            “I could go ask-”

            “On you,” Zayn snaps, “You got anything on you?”

            When he shakes his head, Zayn rolls his eyes.

            “How do we do this?”

            “Just uh, just  _move_ ,” he whimpers, Zayn’s cock hard against him, thick pressure on his thigh. He’s wondering if they even need anything. If they can just do it like this. Get down on the sand, bend over and let Zayn press into him, fuck him into the ground.

            And it’s too much, just the thought. He forgets that this Zayn isn’t the one who’s little sister writes him letters in crayon. Or the Zayn who pats his back when he’s fucked up, listens intently when he needs to get something off of his chest.

            No, this Zayn craves.

            But Liam forgets, and his eyes slip shut and he presses forward, ignorantly hoping to meet Zayn’s lips. The sort of kiss that could forgive the last time and make this time alright.

            But Zayn fists at his shirt, pushes him back.

            “ _Fuck_ , man. Turn around,” he groans.

When Zayn drags Liam’s pants down past his hips and thighs until they’re snagged around his knees, legs spread too wide to let them fall. Before he can step in a bit, there are hands on his ass, gripping tight, then pulling away.

            He gasps when his boxers are pulled down, when the bitter night air stings, blunt and cold. But only for a moment. Then Zayn’s chest is pressed flush to his back and all Liam can think about is how good it had felt to be beneath him on his bunk, to be held down. Even the bad stuff feels okay when they’re like this. Even not seeing his face seems like a blessing. He whispers his name over and over under his breath  _Zayn Zayn Zayn_  like he’s begging him to never stop.

            He can feel the thick length of him, feel the dull burn when he presses too tight with his fingers, nails surely breaking the skin on his sides. Then Zayn’s cock is between his legs and he squeezes his eyes shut, bites down on his lip hard not to groan because it feels so fucking good and he isn’t even inside him. This raw need, Zayn’s thrusts fast and sloppy, rough friction between his thighs.

            If Zayn has any inhibitions about keeping quiet, he doesn’t show them. His voice is loud and broken in Liam’s ear. He drags his teeth over his lobe.

            “God, I want to be in you so bad. You’re probably so fucking tight,” he groans and grinds slower when Liam presses back against him, “ _Nnngh_ , so- so wet for me.”

            It shouldn’t. It really shouldn’t make Liam lose control, but it does. Those words. The way Zayn  _growls_  them, breath bitter and sticky in the cold night.

            “Zayn don’t-”

            But there’s a hand on his throat before he can finish the thought. It’s not suffocating, not yet, but it’s a strong grip. A warning.

            Zayn’s voice drops so low, Liam has to strain to hear it.

            “Just fucking take it,” he whispers, drops his other hand lower to Liam’s cock and squeezes tight at the base, “Shut up and take it,” and Liam feels more sane than he ever has in his entire life. He feels like he could reach behind him and sink his fingers straight through the thin skin at Zayn’s chest, touch his organs one by one, press his lips to his heart, feel it beat out a rhythm in his palm.

—

            After Harry dies, Louis doesn’t say a word. It’s so fast.

            No one has the chance to offer anything. No one has the chance to say goodbye.

            Niall had warned that they were coming up on a field probably littered with mines. He’d said it over and over and over, but after an entire day of walking on coals and nothing happening… It was like that story about the man dying of thirst with his falcon in the desert. It was the easiest thing in the world to forget that you’re skin and bones and blood and you rip and tear.

            And for the first time since they’d been boys at bootcamp, children learning how to hold their rifles, for the first time Louis’ not by Harry’s side.

            It’s Harry up front, so far out ahead of the others. Then Zayn, trudging slowly, puffing on a cigarette that’s long dead. Then Niall, then Liam, then Louis.

            There’s nothing, there’s no warning.

            Harry takes a step and Liam is watching him- he’s first, of course he’s watching. He’s fine, he’s fine, he’s fine, then just like that he isn’t. He’s a cloud of pink dust, a splattering of organic debris. Zayn starts to scream.

            It takes almost a full minute for Liam and Niall to realize he’s clutching at his face desperately, blood surging from the open wound. He’s covered in blood from head to toe, and little chunks of flesh.

            They drag him away from the splattering of dark red, and force his hand off so they can see the damage. Louis doesn’t move at all. He’s still standing in the same spot when they finally get Zayn to calm down enough to see how bad it is. And the same spot when he and Niall meet each other’s eyes and know for a fact that Zayn’s permanently scarred. The entire left side of his face is marled and shredded, flesh hanging limp from the hollows of his cheeks like someone had taken a cheese grater to his face and the concave where his left eye used to be. He whimpers low and slow, pathetic little sounds for a few minutes before he drifts off into unconsciousness.

            A few meters away, they find Harry’s dog tags. Niall’s shaking so badly he can barely hold them.

            Liam reaches his hand out and lets them drop into his palm like dead weights.

            He makes it nearly three steps away before he bends over at the waist and hurls. That night when Liam kisses Zayn, he knows he still tastes like it, the bitter burn of stomach acid on the inside of his lips. Zayn’s face is just starting to scab, but it cracks and bleeds when he coughs and Liam rips at his shirt the best he can to hold against it, try and stop the blood. Zayn falls asleep with Liam right there and Niall cries. He tries to hide it, but they’re all alone. Miles of nothing but sand, so if Zayn is awake when he starts, he doesn’t mention it in the morning, and Liam never sleeps at all, but he doesn’t mention it either. He wants to cry, too, but he can’t remember how.

            When he gets up at dawn, he takes a sip from his canteen only to realize that it’s the last there is- he’s out of water. He shakes the others’ tentatively, and they all have a little. If they share, they could last a bit. If they ration anyway.

            He takes his time heading over past a low dune to their left. He knows he has to go. Has to see. But there’s nothing in the world he wants to do less.

            It’s not as messy as he’d thought it would be- Louis’ gone with a knife. It’s still lodged deep in the base of his throat, so Liam tugs it out, wipes the thick blood away on Louis’ shirt. They could use the knife still. He doesn’t want it to go to waste.

            He stares down at him, at the way his lips are parted slightly, filled with dried blood in the crease. At his eyes, wide open, a milky grey imitation of his blue.

            “Goodbye, Louis,” he whispers, then bows his head awkwardly, “ _I hope you take him, and I hope you’re good to him_.”

            It’s all he can think to say at the moment, so he crosses his fingers that it’s enough.

            When Niall’s up and he asks where Louis is, Liam only shakes his head.

            When Zayn wakes up, he asks why can’t see out of his left eye, or hear from his left ear. The skin is dark purple and raw, bleeding again no matter how much pressure Liam puts on it, it never seems to stop. Liam knows it’s the worst sign that he can’t feel any pain. That he’s talking to them just fine with half of his face gone.

            “You got hurt really bad,” he offers slowly.

            Zayn nods, “Did you get hurt, too?”, sounding every bit like a confused child.

            Liam shakes his head, but Zayn can’t see. The eye he has left is shut tight.

            “I’m fine,” Liam says, and Zayn tries to smile. It only cracks at his lips and fresh blood trickles down his face.

            “I’m glad,” he says slowly, “Liam, I don’t- don’t know what I’d do…”         

            Liam hushes him gently, presses the shirt tighter to staunch the blood from his lips.

            They make camp just there, too wary of moving Zayn. It’s morbid, he knows, with Harry’s… It’s wrong, but they don’t know what else to do, so they stay.

            Once Zayn’s off to sleep, Liam digs through his pack for his bible, takes out the pen he keeps lodged inside, and rips at three pages of the blank note paper in back, then he takes out a cigarette. If anyone makes it, it’ll be Niall. If he leaves Zayn, there’s his chance. If he stays… Well, then Liam’s words die with him. Carcasses sandpapered away by the Earth.

—

            Liam writes three letters. One to his mom and dad.

             _Mom,_

_I never wrote you back and I’m sorry. I know this letter is long overdue. I’m sending you the dog tags of a man in my company. He doesn’t have family or anyone really. He had one person, but he died right along with him. If no one takes the tags, then they’re fossils and he was special, so I’m giving them to you. Even if you put them in your jewelry box and never look at them again, that’s still better than nothing and he deserves better. I’m sorry that you’ll never get a chance to hear about him, and I’m sorry that they’re always going to be just pieces of metal to you._

_Dad, or Mom if you’re reading this and plan on cornering him and relaying the message, I want to say sorry to you, too. Not for joining because I still think it was the best choice for me, and if I had the chance to do it again, I would. No, I want to say sorry for never letting you get to know me. Which I guess is sort of your fault, too. I think you tried too hard to be a father and forgot that I needed you to be a dad sometimes. I’m sorry that we’ll never get to talk, and I’m sorry that I never loved you, and I’m sorry that you made it so hard to even try._

_Liam._

One to his grandfather.

             _Grandpa,_

_I know we were never all that close, and as far as grandkids go, my sisters were definitely a hell of a lot easier to love. But I loved you, though. I think I love you even more now. I’m writing this with a cigarette pressed between two fingers and I haven’t even breathed it in yet, but I’m starting to think there’s so much bad, why not puff on death a little? I think I get you now._

_There’s an ocean between us and a few big chunks of land, but maybe if there’s something after this, we’ll get a chance to talk. I’d like to ask you who you smoked your first cigarette with, and if you thought they were beautiful then, embracing death like that, all slow and fearless and sad and I’d like to ask you if you believe in fate because sometimes I think I do, but then sometimes I think I get it confused with luck or chance or something. I hope maybe you know the difference._

            One to the pastor of a church in St. Louis.

             _Dear Pastor Rae,_

             _There’s a kid who goes to your church, and I think he’s going to die and actually I don’t know if he goes to your church anymore, but he used to and churches are forever, right? I’ve never been to a church before, but I like to think they’re the sorts of things you can’t run away from, and he’s running away, but he doesn’t mean to, I know it. I don’t want to say his name, but maybe you could pray for a kid who’s really scared and who’s slipping? Or maybe you already are? Or maybe this letter will be too late and he’ll only have my prayers, except I’m not sure if they’ll work. I never believed in god or anything and I don’t know, if he’s as smart as people make him seem, he probably never believed in me either._

            He writes three letters and folds them up tight in torn light blue paper from their map. It’s part of the Atlantic ocean which is kind of nice and kind of sad, but he tucks them beneath Niall’s head where he’s sleeping so heavy, and he brushes his fingers over Zayn’s cheek on the side where the skin’s still smooth and tan and says an awkward, probably useless, prayer, but it’s comforting to hope, he guesses. So he hopes.

            And he’s still hoping when he’s so far away, he can’t even make out their shapes against the horizon.

 


	2. Epilogue?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's 2 am and I should be in bed but here I am writing pointless things..

Niall is the only patient at the VA hospital with consistent mail. The letters come from Florida.

After he’d gotten back to the states, his mom and his brother had flown out to see him a few times. They wrote, but eventually the letters stopped coming and then he wasn’t hearing from them at all. Like some twisted form of fate, he had finally made it to California. Only the doctors said it would be months before he’s well enough to leave the hospital, let alone fish.

  
When he’d gotten home, the first thing he’d done was send off one of Liam’s letters. It was the only one with an address anyway. Three days later he got a response.

  
The refreshing part was being able to be so candid. Initially it had been because Liam’s mother asked him to be. She wanted to know what happened to Liam and she wanted it from someone who had been there. The Army had labeled him a deserter. Niall told her that the honest answer was he fell asleep with Liam there and woke up with him gone. Three letters and Harry and Louis’ dog tags had been wedged into the collar of his jacket while he’d slept. The part he left out was that he didn’t try and look for Liam.

  
Niall had woken up and felt the pages scraping the scruff at his jaw. He didn’t need to read them to know that Liam was long gone. He knew things would change as soon as Zayn was hurt. No, he wouldn’t try to find Liam. No, he won’t tell Liam’s mother that.

  
She asks about the dog tags he’d sent with her letter and Niall writers her back what he can remember about Harry. The good things. Then about Louis, because it seems strange to mention one and not the other. Liam’s mother asks about them more and Niall tells her he’d never given any of the boys’ dog tags back. He has them all, and she can have Louis’ if she wants. He tells her to stick them in her jewelry box with Harry’s. He knows she likes stuff like that, sentimental things. Fitting because Harry and Louis did too.

  
When she asks what it had been like for him it’s harder to answer. He just starts with the end and hopes it makes sense. He tells her he had a decent amount of water. He wouldn’t dehydrate. Not for a while at least. But Zayn was dying, and quickly. Eventually it became hours of just waiting for it. When he did go, it was quietly. He let out a soft groan and then was still and silent again. He took Zayn’s tags and put them in his pocket. Then he gathered what he thought he might need and started to walk.

  
“I was getting closer to some sort of civilization,” he wrote to her. The sand started to feel more packed and there were tiny tufts of bright green grass every now and then. He was also out of water. His throat had stopped feeling like sandpaper and started to feel just tight and hard. When he breathed, the air tasted gritty like there was sand in his lungs. It was one long grueling night when he thought he saw lights ahead.

  
They were a steady beam, mustard yellow. In his mind, he saw people and animals. He started to walk faster until he was pounding through the sand, feet sinking into the earth. Eventually he toppled over. The tiny sprint that seemed to last hours had only been seconds and his body was screaming in agony. He was gasping as his chest heaved and he started to crawl forward on his hands and knees. When his head began to pound, he closed his eyes but he didn’t stop. The motion of his arms and legs was no longer his own choice, something was pulling him forward, something strong. It wasn’t until he got to the edge of it that he realized he was slipping down the slope of a dune.

  
He hit the bottom of it, packed sand like hot cement, and his right leg buckled, bent outward at the knee in a right angle away from his body. He passed out a few seconds later from the pain and woke up in a hut surrounded by camo’d brats just like him.

  
He spared Liam’s mother the intricate, dreadfully boring _after_. It was summed up nicely anyway- Here I am in the hospital. My friends are all dead. My leg’s been amputated. I don’t know what happens after this. I think I’m scared to find out.


End file.
